Rawley drove down El Dorado Canyon, now silent in mid-afternoon, with not a sound of stamp mill or compressor or the mingled voices of men at work. Techatticup stood forlorn, deserted save by one old man who bore himself proudly because he was the guardian there. The war, the labor question, the slump in metals, had done their work. It seemed to Rawley as if the nation were taking a long breath, making ready to go forward again more resistlessly than before. He missed Johnny Buffalo terribly; but if he could, he would not have called him back. Johnny would have had a dreary time of it, alone all these long months when Rawley’s work had held close to the affairs of the government.
The eye of the Eagle had not been closed. His keen glance had gone to this and to that, his piercing gaze had fixed itself upon the desert land and the river that went hurrying down through flaming gorge and painted canyon, a law unto itself, an untaught, untamed giant of the wild; a scenic wonder set deep in savage walls of rock, where people came and looked down upon it, drew back shivering, ventured to look again in silent awe; a terrible, devastating thing from which men fled in terror when the giant river rose, leaped from its bed and went raging across the land.
Men called for power, for protection, for water to till barren acres that might be made fertile. Men shouted for the things which the Colorado held arrogantly within its grasp, to hoard with miserly greed or to let loose in a ferocious fury. The Colorado had power, it had water, it had a cruel habit of devouring lands and homes and whooping onward toward the gulf, heedless of the destruction in its wake.
And the Eagle had lifted his head and turned his eyes upon the great river. Here, within the borders of his domain, dwelt a powerful, savage thing that must be tamed and taught to obey the will of men. The Eagle considered this headlong defiance of all civilized restraint. The Eagle saw how men looked upon the river, drew back in awe and ventured to look again; men, who should be the masters of the river. The Eagle lifted and spread his wings. And the tip of a wing reached over the desert land and laid its shadow across the Colorado.
A great orator had painted it so, and Rawley was thinking of that picture of the Eagle as he drove down the canyon to the very brink of the river and climbed out of his car. Still desolate, more forsaken than ever was the place where El Dorado had stood alive, alert, self-sufficient. The camp was gone, almost forgotten. The river flowed past, disdainful of the puny efforts of men who died and forgot their dreams and their endeavors, while it rushed on through the ages, and played with the lives of men and mocked at their fear of it.
But three men and a girl had dared to dream of holding the might of it in leash. It was to see these dreamers, to warn and to show them the shadow of the Eagle’s wing, that he had come in haste to the bank of the Colorado. For months he had heard nothing. Nevada had not written, or if she had the letter had not reached him. There was danger in delay, in their continued silence.
Rawley slung a canteen over his shoulder and started up the river, taking the well-known trail. This was the quickest way to reach the Cramers, and now that he was in their neighborhood once more a great impatience was upon him, a nervous dread that he might be an hour, a minute too late for what he had come to do.
He came upon Nevada suddenly. She was standing on the site of the old camp where he had stayed with Johnny Buffalo. Her back was toward him, and she was holding something in her two hands; something he had seen her extract from the thorny branches of a stunted mesquite bush. When his footsteps sounded close, she turned and looked at him dumbly, her eyes wide and dark. The thing she held in her hands was his pipe,—one that he had lost on that first trip into the country.
Before his better judgment or his doubts could stop him, Rawley drew her into his arms and held her close while he kissed her. It was so good to see her again, to feel her nearness. But after one rapturous minute, she put away his arms and faced him calmly, though her breath was not quite even and her eyes would not meet his with the old frankness.
“Your one eighth of Indian blood should have given you more reserve, Cousin Rawley,” she reproved him mockingly. “The Spanish of us must be watched. Well, I needn’t ask about your health; you haven’t been pining during your absence, that one could notice.”
Rawley barely escaped forswearing both his Indian and his Spanish blood, but remembered his promise just in time. He did not believe that Nevada regretted his impulsiveness,—for you simply can’t fool a man under thirty when he kisses a girl. Nevada’s lips, he joyously remembered, had not been unresponsive.
“Here’s your pipe,” she said lamely, when he only stood and looked at her. “I was just wondering whether it’s worth saving, or whether I’d better heave it into the river and see how far it would float.”
Rawley did not believe that she intended to heave it anywhere, but he passed the point.
“If cousins fell in love, they—would you consider the relationship any bar—”
Nevada went white around the mouth.
“I certainly should! You ought to be ashamed to ask a question like that. No man with any decency could think of such a thing.”
“I’m decent,” Rawley contended, “and I thought of it.” But he did not pursue the subject further. Nevada had turned and was walking on toward the camp of Cramer, and Rawley could do nothing but follow. The path was too narrow to permit him to walk beside her, and a man feels a fool making love to a woman’s back.
“Have you done anything further about the dam?” he asked, after a silence.
“I believe the work is going ahead,” Nevada replied, keeping straight on.
“You must have received my letter about it; or didn’t you?”
“Yes, I received a letter about something of the sort.”
“You didn’t answer it, did you? I never received any reply.”
“I did not think,” said Nevada, “that the letter required any answer. You wrote and told us to stop all work on the dam, and give up the idea, because some one else wanted to build a dam. Or was considering the building of a dam. I read that letter to Grandfather and Uncle Jess and Uncle Peter, as you requested. They swore rather fluently and went to work the next morning as usual.” Then, as if it had just occurred to her, “Did you come to see about that, Cousin Rawley?”
“Oh, I wish you’d omit the ‘cousin’,” Rawley blurted irrelevantly. “I don’t like having it rubbed in.”
Nevada said nothing for a time. Then she laughed, a hard little laugh that sounded strange, coming from her.
“Certainly, if you wish. I’m very sorry I seem to have ‘rubbed it in’, as you put it. And I quite understand how you feel. Out among men—and women—as you have been, all your life, the—er—mixed relationship would prove rather a handicap. Poor old Grandfather and Grandmother should have thought of their children’s children, before they fell in love. And Uncle Peter should either have brought you here and raised you with the rest of the tribe, or never told you the truth. I’m not blaming him; I’m merely sorry for the mistake. I know what it means. I’ve been out in the world, too.”
Rawley stared at the proud lift of her head and wondered just how much of that she meant. She must be quite aware of his reason for disliking to be called her cousin, but he would not argue with her. Except about the handicap.
“You’re mistaken, if you think the mixed blood is an objectionable feature,” he said firmly. “Indian and Spanish have the same essential characteristics of race that the straight white blood owns. Besides, there are mighty few Americans who couldn’t trace back to something of the sort. Character, culture and environment sweep a few drops of red blood into the background, Nevada. You wouldn’t feel bitter over it, if you didn’t live right here and see the Indian predominate in Young Jess and Gladys—and your grandmother.”
“Your grandmother, as well as mine,” she flashed over her shoulder with a very human spitefulness. “Don’t deny it—to me.”
Rawley did not deny anything at all; wherefore, conversation languished between the two. Since first he had known her, Nevada had frequently withdrawn into an unapproachable aloofness discouraging to any lasting intimacy, but she had never before betrayed resentment against her blood.
He had hoped that she would be glad to see him and would let him see that she was glad. He had hoped to win her complete confidence in his devotion to their interests and welfare. He needed to have both Nevada and Peter on his side, if he were going to be successful in his mission to the Cramers. But he was extremely doubtful now of ever winning Nevada’s confidence. It began to look as though he may as well count her an opponent and be done with doubt.